


I Wish I Was Your Lover

by PloKoon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Post-War, Rebuilding, Season/Series 08, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 00:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18767248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PloKoon/pseuds/PloKoon
Summary: The story starts out at the Jon/Sansa scene in s8 e1, where Sansa questions Jon about his loyalty towards the North. Things develop from there, and the story will go on to be set after The Great War. Jonsa forever. Spoiler alert, adult themes incoming.





	1. United

Winterfell

"Did you bend the knee to protect the North, or because you love her?" He felt the heat rise from his chest up towards his neck, and how his throat grew tight. What could he answer? The truth would make her part of his plot. On the other hand, if Sansa was half as clever as Arya thought she was, she could help him. Gods knew he needed all help he could get with this. But... which was the best way to protect her?

"Sansa…" He started, voice breaking, looking away from her, mind not quite made up yet. Would all that talk of trust from before would mean anything if he didn't share this with her? Technically, they were already partners in crime. And they'd gotten this far together, hadn't they? He swallowed hard. "It was always for the North, for us, and Bran, and Arya. _For you._ I should have told you sooner, but I haven't really had an opportunity... And I couldn't exactly send a raven." A momentt of silence went by, but her face betrayed nothing. He sighed and steeled himself, leaned in and lowered his voice as he spoke. Right now he trusted no walls to keep his words. "You know how you kept telling me that I needed to be smarter than Robb and father?" Sansa nodded, face remained expressionless. "Well." He started, daring a small smile. "Believe it or not, but I did listen. Finally." She nodded slightly again. "It's not neat and elegant like you would do it... but... I found her weakness, and decided to use it." Sansa drew in a sharp breath.

"Welcome to the miserable club then." They shared a joyless smile. "You had me fooled." He gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'll agree the fact she has a prettier face than the mad king. But I swore to protect you, didn't I? Moreover, I feel quite offended that you would think I forgot about the North so quickly." Her cheeks ﬂared red.

"I..." But her throat felt dry and constricted. He smiled at her again.

"If I've managed to fool you, then she has to be too. I hope." Sansa swallowed hard.

"Do you really find it so unreasonable for me to think that you could love her? Stranger things have happened. And men do stupid things for women they love." The blunt tone of her voice disarmed him, and she reached for some water. Another moment of silence went by.

"Aye, they do." He responded in a strained voice. "But she is not that woman, not to me." She drank and put her cup down. "And I thought that you trusted me more than to make that much of a fool of myself. I might need her for this, but I don't want her." She stared at him but said nothing, and he continued on. "When you are summoned to the bedroom of the mother of dragons, you can't deny her. Tyrion was very clear on that note when he was sent to fetch me." A long moment of silence passed by before he looked up at her again. She was stunned. He heaved a deep sigh. "I can't love her." And there it was; all that he could make himself say, and holding his breath, he waited for her.

"If the situation had been reversed, I would have done the same thing. There is no doubt in my mind." She sighed. "Like with Littlefinger." The tension between them was gone, but the mutual understanding that settled was painted gloom on the walls. They stared blankly at nothing in particular.

"I'm spending what could be my last hours in life whoring myself out to fight a war I don't know I can win." There was a small pause. "And I've never felt so dirty in my life, or used, or trapped. But I guess I don't need to state the obvious to someone who's suffered worse fates." Sansa shrugged lightly at his words.

"No. I understand that bit perfectly". And then her eyes found his again, wet with tears she refused to release. The shame he felt was immense.

"By the end of all this, if we happen to survive, I want you to be the Lady of Winterfell. Queen of the North if possible. I've seen how you are a mother to your people, and how they love you for it. And how could they not, if they see even half of what I see in you." He ran a hand through his hair, looking away again. "This is your home. No matter if she is queen sitting in King's Landing or not, and it will be yours, somehow. I promised to protect you, and the North… it's you, and it's yours." She shook her head ever so slightly.

"They elected you to be their king. So did I. And I will stand by you, come winter or dragons or anything else." She raised her head head slightly, and her mothers Tully pride shone through her. "I kept it for you when you were gone, but you're the king. Though I'll do whatever you ask of me." Jon let out a low laugh.

"And here I am, ﬁghting to get your home back to you, leaving it in your safe hands when I go. Trying to make sure it survives, for you. Of course I want to save the North, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't almost all for you." He looked down again, strangely embarrassed at his own words. "I told Melisandre that if I lost the battle against Ramsey, I didn't want her to bring me back again. You told me you wouldn't be taken alive. What's the point of living if all you ever loved is lost? I love the North, and it's my home, but it's not enough."

From the corner of his eye he saw a single teardrop on run down her cheek, but that was all. One tear. Her face was pale and hard like marble.

He hated himself.

"Sansa…" he reached out his hand toward her, but she pulled away harshly. She wiped her cheek as though the tear itself made her angry.

"I'll consent to calling it ours. Ours and all other Starks. Though by the tone of your voice, it almost sounds like you're planning on dying." He looked up and locked eyes with her, feeling as though a shiver went through him.

"I don't especially want to. But I will if I have to. If I have to give my life for the survival of the North, I will." She gave a short, joyless laugh.

"How very gallant of you. But could you please try to stay alive in stead?" He gave a small nod and tried a smile that he didn't quite manage. 

"I'll give it my best shot." 

"I…" Sansa started, but stopped herself, face going blank again and leaving him hanging. "I'm… I need to tell you…" She dug her nails into her thighs through the fabric of her dress. 

He watched her every move, heard her breath echo through his mind. There could have been a war going on the other side of the door, and he would not have noticed. 

"Tell me what?" The softness in his voice did little to calm her. 

"I thought I was done with my silly girly fantasies." She stated in a strained voice, finally looking up at him again. "I was convinced that nobody could protect me, that there were no heroes and that deception will happen sooner or later with everyone." He felt her hand tremble as she pulled it away from him. "But then I met you. And you ruined me." He couldn't help the small smile that crept over his face, and she mirrored it for a second before she spoke again. "I'm not… It's not right. I'm not a Lannister or a Targaryen. It's not fair, and its not right either." His mind emptied and he felt all the colour drain from his face. Her breathing was shallow, and she turned her face away again. "I'm jealous."

His mind went blank. 

"Sansa…" He started carefully, fearing his voice might break. "I…" But she cut him off.

"Please, this is so hard for me to say," she pleaded, and he kept quiet, hainging on her every sound. "There is one more thing." When she raised her face to meet him, there was shame written all over it. "I was jealous." Her voice was thin and distant, stating it more to herself than him. "I still am. I know it's useless and wrong, but I am." 

His head ﬁlled with a weak, white noice, though he didn't quite understand why. Things were getting way too real.

"Sansa..." He started again, but had no idea how to go on. She watched his face closely.

"I have no idea of how much time we have left in this world, Jon. But I can't stand the thought of that... woman... stealing it from me. I want to spend it with you, with Arya, and with Bran." She heaved a deep sigh. "But the reasons I want to spend time with you is different from the others. And if we all die tomorrow, I want you to know." Jon felt as though his stomach ﬁlled with cold water. "I love you, and much more than I know I should."

There was a moment of heavy silence when neither knew how to go on. Should he leave? No. But the moment just when on. He tried to meet her eyes, but she looked away.

"You know," he said finally, trying to find the right words. "Before you arrived at Castle Black, I didn't have much left to live for. I lived to kill, to ﬁght, to defeat the hoard of death coming our way. And I hated it." He raised his hand and ran it over her smooth cheek, and she didn't pull away. "You were the ﬁrst good thing to happen to me in a really long time. You gave me something to live for..." A crooked smile crossed his face. "But I have to admit I didn't just see a sister when I met you again." He became aware of the fact that he'd been leaning closer to her, and moved back a few inches. "I have no idea of how you came out alive, and even less with your strength and heart and sense of honour still intact. I never met anyone like you, I sincerely doubt I ever will again. And I need you in my life, _always_. Without you we would have lost several times over. _I_ would be lost without you. Wandering around aimlessly in the world, brooding, without a true purpose. Because fighting against something isn't half as powerful as ﬁghting for something, or someone."

There was a hint of a smile in her shining blue eyes, which he returned. "It is my sole comfort that we are together in this horrible mess that the world has come to."

"Well, if this is it, there's no place else I'd rather be, I want you to know that."

For a long while all that was heard was the crackling of the fire behind them and the wind howling and whining outside of the small window. He knew that he'd need to leave her sooner or later, but loathed the thought. The idea that this was possibly the last moment they ever had together alone was one that led to the gates of madness. And equally the thought of losing the war, or her, or _both,_ would drive him insane, and so he shoved it to the back of his mind. Fear was possibly his worst enemy right now, aside from the monsters themselves. 

Then he felt her carefully caress his hand with her thumb, and all an overwhelming sense of warmth spread through him. They weren't fighting yet. He was here, she was here, and that was all that mattered.

"I'm not really that good with words, as you might have noticed by now." She smiled widely at him, maybe a little _too_ widely for his liking. 

"Once or twice. But you're definitely getting better." He turned his face towards the fire.

"I've stayed at the Wall and drafty old castles for what feels like a hundred years. I've slept out in the snow beyond the wall. But as long as I've been tired enough, I've rarely had any problems going to sleep." He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't meet them. "After you came to Castle Black, that changed, and not just because of the night terrors you suffered. I've lain awake in my bed just thinking about you. About what will happen after the war, if such a time will come. I've no more will to feel ashamed of my thoughts, just like you said. However wrong they may be. I've thought about all those stories of heroes and fair maidens we used to read as children. About the songs you would sing to yourself when you thought that nobody could hear you. About us, here in our true home, with children of our own and you singing the same songs to them." He ran a hand through his hair, but didn't blush. Being honest was kind of his thing, and this was a time of confession.

"Children…" He heard her answer softly, and he waited for her to continue but nothing came.

"Aye." He breathed out. "Ours. Little girls that look like you. Maybe a son, but gods know they are so much work." They both chuckled quietly. "In a different world, I would be your husband, I'd care for and honour you. There would be no war, and our love wouldn't be wrong." He sighed, but their smiles never left them.

"If we do survive this", Sansa started in a level voice, squeezing his hand again. "Let's make it happen. If we survive an army of the dead, I don't think I'll ever care about what some northern lords say anyways." He looked up to meet her eyes. Hooded, dreamy eyes.

They were building castles in the air, and they both knew it. But this might be more than they'd ever have again, and time was running short. They were never left alone for long, someone always found them, weather together or not. It was the simple curse of being the people in charge.

"Sansa…" He started finally, not caring if his voice was breaking. He felt desperate. Time was chasing him and he detested the feeling. "If you'll have me, I promise to honour and love you until I die." He felt his heart pounding against his throat. "No matter what. If you'll only forgive me this sordid affair I'll do anything to prove I'm worthy and-" She cut him off with a kiss, and he froze, feeling her arms around him. A moment later when his senses returned, he held her as close as he could. She was warm and soft and everything he'd ever wanted but never dared to dream would come true. He closed his eyes, took in her scent and felt the softness of her hair.

"I will love you forever." _Even if forever only lasts until tomorrow._ There was so much emotion in her voice that he couldn't find it in him to respond, and he just wanted to feel how real she was in his arms. It was deeply bitter sweet.

And then came the quick knock on the door that they had both dreaded, and the moment was gone. She gave him one last longing look as she went to open it, straightened her dress, and visibly stiffened herself back up. Once more transformed to the ruler she was meant to be.

As he got up to join her and ser Davos in conversation, something about supplies, he felt slightly dizzy and winded. The fear he felt mixed badly with the sweet happiness that pooled in his stomach. He was staring at her face as she spoke and couldn't help himself, not wanting to miss a single thing before their inevitable parting would occur. He burned the image of her into his mind; the way the light of the fire illuminated her hair and danced on her face, how very blue her eyes were, even in this relative darkness, and how dignified she was as she spoke. She was _everything_ to him.

_He had to live. She had to live._

There had to be a tomorrow.


	2. When the war is over

Jon

Winterfell

_When the war is over, there's no going back_

As it had turned out, through one miracle or another, both Jon and Sansa were alive when the war was over. Although many people had died, trough intervention by the old gods or luck or skill, the Starks were still there. Daenerys, her dragons, and so many others had fallen in the battles in the south. But not them.

Sansa had remained in Winterfell. He had insisted that there always needed to be a Stark here, and Bran had agreed, and so she'd told them everything she could about Cersei, and they had sent ravens back and forth when needed. It hadn't been ideal, but they had won, and now they were free. The seven kingdoms were free too, at least comparatively speaking. There was no king; a new council had been created, with representatives from the seven kingdoms and the most important of their vassals. With that settled, Jon rode home, Bran had stayed behind in Kings' Landing, and Arya came and went as she pleased.

The armies of the North were marching home and anticipation was thick in the air in Winter town. Preparation of food and lodging had been her main concern as he cold still held its hard grasp on the land, and the men were worth more than to be left to sleep in their tents as they returned home.

Jon had returned home to Sansa around noon that day and overheard her as she'd been talking to one of the few thatchers’ that had stayed behind, much too old to go to war. From what he picked up, he'd helped her organize the building of a few temporary longhouses for the people who had remained in Winter Town, because what was left of Winterfell couldn't hold everyone. She hadn't seen him at first as he approached her from the side, alone, without his usual armour on him. The gates had been open and he'd waved away the fanfare. It hadn't taken him long to throw himself off his horse and remove his top layer of steel plate and chainmail, sick as he was of everything that made him feel like he was about to ride into battle again.

She had not been difficult to find, standing there like a pillar of strength and furs and red hair among the rubble and snow and broken things. She was home and hope and …his? Jons heart skipped a beat. No, not yet.

_When the war was over…_

_He never wanted to go back._

And he was desperate for her to love him.

But what if she wanted to pretend like their conversation before that battle never happened? In all honesty, he'd been pretty sure that he wasn't going to survive, yet here he was, and so was she, and spring was coming and… It was as though he'd been given a new, real chance at life.

He resisted an urge to run to her and take her in his arms and kiss her and do all the things he wanted to really do. He had missed her in a lovesick kind of way, and though he hadn't told anyone about it, ser Davos and Tormund had both figured out that something was "amiss". The others were mostly busy with themselves, and he could hardly blame them. So many things had been lost in the fires and battles and storms. They were all just trying to cope, mourn and get through the day.

But for him, somewhere in all the mess that was the new world, he had found solace in the thought of her. He'd sent her letters about things that would hardly warrant the use of the precious ravens of Kings' Landing, but he didn't care. He wanted to hear about Sam, Gillys pregnancy, the small people and if the roads were okay and if she needed anything, anything at all. Her answers were polite and about the practical matters of things, maybe a bit short at times, but even so just seeing her hand and stamp on the scrolls made him ever so at ease. He'd kept them all.

It also meant that he had no idea of what she really felt and thought about their previous encounter, not that he’d ever expected to hear anything about that through a raven. He wanted to trust in her, as they had said that they would. He didn't doubt that she loved him, not at all. But castles in the air were just that, fantasies.  
Part of him felt incredibly selfish and guilty. How many soldiers had been lost? How much needed to be rebuilt, reploughed, organized and repaired? But he'd grown weary from pretending to love someone. He didn't feel ashamed of it, not really, he'd done what he had to make sure that mankind survived. But he was so tired of it all.

Just once, he wanted to do something that wasn't a sacrifice or forced upon him or for the sake of duty alone, and loving Sansa was pretty much the opposite of that.

He'd ridden ahead of his men to help prepare Winterfell, as much as it could be, for feeding and lodging an army. Many might still have to sleep in their tents, but they were more than used to it by now. He'd stay with them to keep the morale up, lead by example and all that. From what he'd understood by Sansas letters, at least the food would be better than all that salty meat they'd been eating for the last month.

And then he was by her side, nudging her arm with his naked hand and saying her name, and she threw herself into his arms and he held her and held her and held her… When they pulled apart, he looked at her like he'd never seen her before, and there was a blush, and she held her head high.

After having made the rounds, meeting and greeting and all that, they turned their eyes to what was left of Winterfell. They walked around and studied the grounds and assessed the damage that had been done. Most of the able folk had gone South with them, so no work had yet been started in earnest. Thankfully, she told him, the foundation was mostly intact, and the first thing they needed to do was allocate materials and builders. The reserves of food were still good, and the countryside had been spared almost all the usual burdens of war. The undead had not marched far, and where they had gone, they had not burned anything. The ice would melt, the days would get longer, and spring would come back soon. Sansa felt it in her bones.

"We've explored the cellar, and that and the main chimneys are still basically intact. The main towers are fine. I tried to fit as many as I could in the great hall and the other rooms that survived, and thankfully we got the kitchen in order rather quickly." She gave him a genuine smile, as though she wasn't looking at the remaining rubble of her ancestral home at all. But then, everything would be fine, wouldn't it? It was a strange feeling to know that things probably wouldn't, for once, get worse. "There will be bread and soup and winter apples for your men. And oats for the horses. And there's a couple of longhouses for your wounded." She closed her eyes, heaved a great sigh and wrapped her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders. "And now, Jon, I am so very tired."

He put his arm around her as they walked to the old Heart tree, and he felt the tenseness of her shoulders and neck, even if she'd put on a brave face since he got back. "I commend you for your work, my lady." He said finally, realizing that there weren't any words that could describe the gratitude and admiration he felt for her, but he wanted to say something. His own work had been comfortable enough compared to hers. The Red Keep had feather beds and a warm climate, even if the city itself had been crowded and smelled of death baking in the afternoon heat, and the workhours long. But then, she had probably worked as much as he had. She nodded at him, and they sat down on the stones by the pond. They had walked all the way to the old Heart tree, a few red leaves lay scattered around them in the snow.

"I haven't slept much since you left," Sansa admitted with another sigh. "I was worried sick, and I wouldn't trust any letters until I actually saw you again. Guess war makes you paranoid." He gave her a small smile.

"I missed you." And he took her hand in his, but they weren't the soft hands of a lady anymore. They were the hands of a regina who did whatever needed to be done. She smiled back at him, and he drank it in. "And you'll have someone to share your burdens with from now on." She shrugged lightly and squeezed his hand, and he felt her warmth seeping through him.

"It's just…" She gazed at the frozen water before them. "Sorry but, will the troops arrive tomorrow?" Jon nodded.

"They ought to, yes. Most likely in the evening." Sansa made a gesture at the castle walls.

"I think we should have a feast, or, at least a… celebration? The food is what it is, but the people need something to bring their spirits up. For all the warriors who came home, and songs and fires for those who didn't." She looked back at him again. "And before we rebuild Winterfell, we need to get Winter Town in order, and set up some kind of monument for all the one's we lost…" There was nothing for him to do but agree with her, and then they sat in stillness for a long while, the only sound being the distant howling of the wind. "And now you are the King of the North again." Her voice was levelled, but he knew that there was much behind it.  
"Not if the lords have a say, and we need to give them that. With the new… information, they should be given a chance to vote again." Sansa cocked her head slightly at his words and gave a crooked smile.

"Careful there dragonboy, you might lose." She was teasing him, but he'd let her have it if it kept her smiling.

"Aye." He responded flatly, and let his eyes gaze at her mouth for a breath before he returned them to hers again. She'd seen it, and her smile softened.

"Sansa", he said finally, feeling as though his heart might give up on him if he didn't get to talk to her about what had happened before the final battles had commenced. "I need to know… do you still…" And he looked up at her, and her eyes were so blue, and her entire being focusing on him. "I never thought I was going to live long enough to have this conversation." He breathed out heavily, but with a smile on his lips. "I'm sorry, I have no idea what I'm doing." He ran a hand through his hair, and to his great dismay he heard her giggle at him.

"You go about defeating undead hoards, restructure the seven kingdoms, and still can't talk to girls?" He felt a red heat spread from his chest up to his neck, and begged the gods not to let it reach his face. Unfortunately for him, the gods didn't care. He hid his face in his hands.

"Out of all the times in this world, you have to tease me now?" His voice oozed with mock-hurt, bur she stopped giggling anyhow. "And I'll have you know, that statement's only true about the one girl." About half a minute went by in silence before she spoke again.

"Okay. Look at me." And he did, and her smile was warm, and her hand brushed his hot cheek and it made all tension in him melt away. "Are you still Jon? The same as before this… mess?" He nodded against her.

"Yes. And I've receded my Targaryen name, all the claims that went with it, abdicated, and kept my mothers name. But I guess that you’ve heard all about that already… All I ever wanted to be was a Stark, here, in Winterfell. I don't know what the other Northerners will think of me, but I'm all the same as before." He crinkled another smile at her. "Does that answer my lady's question?" And Sansa nodded softly at him, leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Then, Jon Stark, will you keep your promise to me and take me as your wife?" He laughed softly.

"Are you proposing to me?" Her smile didn't fade.

"Yes." And he bowed slightly to her and kissed her hand, feeling like a knight from one of the old stories who had finally won the love of his precious lady.

"Then I say yes."

His heart felt light as a little bird. And yet…

They both knew in their hearts that it wouldn't be as easy as simply getting married and living happily ever after. There was so much to be done before they could focus on their own happiness. Not to mention the fact that if they married now, the nobles would think that he'd gone from perusing one queen to another, because there was no doubt in his mind that Sansa would be elected over himself, being the true Stark that she was. He tightened the grip on her hand, and she smiled up at him, pulled back from her thoughts.

"We've got this." She kissed his cheek.

"Brick by brick, as uncle Ned used to say." He brushed some hair from her face and moved himself closer to her, and she leaned in to kiss him and the world around them fell away for one sweet moment.

They sat in silence by the old tree as night fell over the castle, the lights in the windows were lit and helped guide them right as they slowly began to make their way back over the broken ground. They held hands in the dark and talked and laughed as though nothing special had happened lately, and it was just any other beautiful winter night. The silvery moonshine made long blue shadows of their forms on the snow behind them.

Then, just before they entered the castle grounds, Sansa stopped, let go of his hand and gave him a nervous smile.

"Right, a few practical matters. Firstly, I gave your room to Gilly and Sam." He raised his eyebrows slightly at her.

"And?" She fiddled with the sleeve of her dress.

"Well, she's having a baby any day now so I only thought it right they have a proper room for the delivery. I moved into an old reading room by the library that still has a functioning fireplace. You could have it if you'd like. It's small but it's-" He stared at her.

"I brought my tent." And even in the weak light from the walls behind them, he saw her blush.

"Oh… okay." But she was still blushing. "It's just… it would be very strange if the king of the North slept in a tent outside of his own castle." He shrugged.

"I can't very well throw you out."

"Uh… well…" Why did she still look so nervous? "I could sleep in one of the halls with the others? Or in the longhouses?" He shook his head.

"The lady of Winterfell can't very well sleep outside of the castle either, and honestly, not amongst the commoners either. Not that I mind them as such, but…" He shrugged. "You know what I mean."

"Well, there aren't really any other rooms. Not with working fireplaces. I gave them to the pregnant women, and anyone else who were in an especially precarious situation. I can't very well throw toddlers out."

"Well, I still have that tent-"

"Or we could share it?" And then he understood what she'd probably been getting at the whole time and felt like a complete idiot.

"Oh." He felt his own cheeks grow hot. "Uh, I'll have my bed set up?"

"No no, no need, I'll fix one, it's not a problem. I know how horrible the travelling beds can be, and I've had mattresses prepared so there's plenty." He couldn't help but feel as though the sentence was a bit rehearsed, and gave her a questioning look. She was playing him.

"Please just say it outright next time." She gave him another smile, but less nervous this time.

"Why, what ever do you mean my lord?" Again with that cheek. God, how he'd missed it, along with so much else. He took a step closer to her, leaning in to whisper to her as though the wrong person might hear, but there wasn't a soul nearby.

"Don't toy with me Sansa. Own it." He felt more than heard as she drew in a sharp breath and there was a twitch in his chest.

"I want you in my chamber tonight." And his pulse grew quicker, as though he hadn't already been prepared for what she'd had to say. She pulled away, straightened her back and quirked a brow at him. "And if you'd insisted on staying in that horrid tent, mark my words, I would have found a way to get in there as well." Then she shook off some snow from the hem of her dress and left him to his thoughts and started towards the caste again. "And anyhow. Surely you can't fault a girl for being a tad nervous when her man comes back from war." Her man. She meant him. The words danced through his mind.

"But you're not a girl, are you?" He heard the words coming out of his mouth, but he still stood there, frozen like, and she stopped again to listen to him. Once he found his bearing, he walked up to her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her as deeply as he dared. As he pulled away, he realized that he'd been holding his breath and took a deep drink of the icy cold air.

"No, I'm not." Her voice was low and steady. "But fear makes one feel small, and I've felt so small since you left. Not that I let it rule me. But there is little joy in the world when all of your loved ones are risking their necks and there's no guaranties that any of them will survive." He merely nodded at her and hugged her close.

"I don't know how many times I've heard old children's songs sung around the campfires. Or how many stories about siblings or mothers or grandfathers. We tell ourselves that we do it for them. But I would be lying if I said that I never felt guilty for marching the Northern armies down south to put another despot on the throne. So somewhere along the line, I decided not to. I'm not sure how it would have come about if she hadn't been killed in the battle of Kings Landing, but… I guess that's over now." He felt her nod into his shoulder. "Uh... the point I was trying to make was that war makes us all feel small." He thought that he'd said too much, but she hummed at his words.

"I'm so glad you're here."

When they got back, almost everyone else had gone to bed. During the short days they worked hard, and at night sleep fell over the castle like a heavy blanket. Sansa pulled him along to the kitchen to make sure he ate some reheated soup and bread, asked for her room to be prepared and sank down into one of the chairs by the small table next to him. She looked absolutely exhausted and a little pale, but ate her soup all the same. Even now, she was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen, and he felt so grateful for getting to share this small, quiet moment in their real home with her.

The library had a few wax candles still burning, and they walked past broken shelves and unsorted piles of paper. Surprisingly though, in one of the corners stood an almost clean desk, and next to it a seemingly organized shelf. That must have been Sam's doing. And then they were at a door, her door, and she let him in, and the room was warm and smelled like her. The guards were on the other side of the library, meaning that Jon and Sansa were completely alone, probably in this entire part of the castle. A shiver went through him at the thought.

He closed and locked the door behind him and surveyed the cramped space. There was a chest which he assumed held Sansas private things, clothes and so on. A huge old desk with a book holder on it, a sectioned shelf for storing letters, (which had long ago reached its capacity), and a rather wide bed squeezed in between said desk and the wall. His was on the other side, covered in linen and soft furs. The fire crackled and was the only source of light in the room.

She hung up her cloak on a hook on the door, walked over to her trunk and pulled out a nightgown, then she pointed at what he realized was his own luggage as though to tell him to do the same. He knew that there was supposed to be a tunic somewhere in there, searched it, and found it at the very bottom, thankfully still clean. He probably hadn't worn it since King's Landing. And then he realized that he smelled very much like a soldier, and silently cursed himself for it.

"Jon." Sansa finally said after what seemed like an eternity. He turned towards her, and she was standing facing him, unbuttoning the front of her dress. But she didn't say anything more, undoing her dress, letting it fall to the floor.

"Yes?" His voice sounded strangely distant.

"You're not really going to sleep over there, are you?" She ran a hand through her hair and undid one of her braids. He really needed to stop freezing up at every single thing she did, but gods, she did them good. His chest grew warm and he ran a hand over his face.

"What?" His voice was hoarse, and he couldn't really process anything anymore.

Her undertunic fell on top of her dress, and before she pulled her nightgown on, if only for a moment, he saw her standing in her smallclothes and high socks and felt as though none of this could be real. And then she walked up to him and started to undo his leather vest, pulling slowly at the straps as though there wasn't anything strange or special about it at all. After a moment, as he returned to his senses, he put a hand on hers to stop her and finally caught her gaze. But in her blue eyes there wasn't a trace of the shy girl he’d known before. It was the eyes of a woman who knew what she wanted, and who expected to get her way.

"I want to share my bed with you."

And then he was wholly and utterly lost.

_The war was indeed over_   
_And there was never any going back_


End file.
